


Showtime (All That Jazz)

by calicovirus



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, theatre history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9416975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicovirus/pseuds/calicovirus
Summary: It is said that the Devil has all the best tunes.This is broadly true. But Heaven has the best choreographers.— Good Omens, p. 96, 2006 US mass-market paperback edition.Crowley, Aziraphale, and the ghost of Bob Fosse.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meganbobness](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Meganbobness).



> Written for Meganbobness for the 2016 Good Omens Holiday Exchange. She asked for Aziraphale, Crowley, and the theatre :)

Crowley was enjoying the 1950s, on the whole. He had decidedly _not_ enjoyed the previous decade and its ongoing nightmare fuel, but this decade was really looking up. Lots of crass commercialism and New Modern Conveniences and even the whole Nuclear Age thing was proving a surprising source of inspiration in his work life. (It helped that no one _really_ wanted to go through with it this time.) Everything was coming together just as he liked it. He'd got his flat redone the previous year, in the latest styles; it had looked a bit worse for wear with its old Art Deco furniture and ridiculous cubist paintings. The new one was sleek and modern, in white and orange with a wood-panelled accent wall he was inordinately fond of. He'd seen some American designs that were just astounding—entire walls made of glass! Whatever would they think of next?

The cinema was improving by leaps and bounds, too. Colour films were almost commonplace now, and with the end of the war there was a lot less patriotic drivel out, although sadly he'd seen nothing like the astoundingly subversive stuff they were putting out before the war.

"Too many romantic comedies," Crowley told Aziraphale one night, waving around at his fancy new flat with its fancy accent wall and expensive coffee table. "All with…stern baritone heroes and witty women without a lot of sense and they all get married in the end. And frankly, an absurd amount of spanking. How on Earth are they getting all that spanking past the censors?"

"Better a spanker than a Communist, I suppose," said Aziraphale in some confusion. "And you know those plots are hardly new, either."

"I know, I know, they're all Shakespeare all over again. You know, I saw one the other month that actually _was_ just Shakespeare all over again. _The Taming of the Shrew_ , but with songs and dance and 3-D." Crowley leaned back in his new sofa, taking advantage of its reclining shape.

"Three dees?" Aziraphale's brow furrowed. He was sitting right on the edge of one of Crowley's new armchairs, perched like he was about to fly off at any minute, looking unusually fashionable in a brown sport coat and mustard-yellow plaid vest.

"Three dimensions. They give you these funny plastic glasses, see, with one red lens and one blue lens, and then you watch the film with them on and it makes everything look like it's really in front of you," Crowley explained.

"So…it looks like the theatre," Aziraphale concluded. "Pointless nonsense. They could just go see the original on stage."

"Not with everything, though."

"Well they could with _Kiss Me Kate_ ," Aziraphale argued. "It was only in London a few years ago. Rather clever concept, I have to give Mr. Porter that. Taking something old and making it something new again—"

"I thought you just said it wasn't new," Crowley grumbled. "That's where we started with this."

"It's a _bit_ new," Aziraphale countered.

Crowley sniffed. "There was something about that bit near the end, though."

"What bit?"

"Near the end," Crowley repeated. "Of the film. There was this one dancer—"

"Oh really," Aziraphale scowled. "Only one? For an entire film?"

Crowley groaned. "No, no. This one _individual_ dancer. It's like he wasn't even part of the film, except he was, he was just doing nothing like any of the others were doing."

"Sounds like he wasn't a very good dancer," Aziraphale replied, reaching about for the bottle of white.

"He was though, that's the thing. It was just this little bit with him being really good and really different, just at the end, and then it was gone and over and that was that." Crowley snapped his fingers and refilled Aziraphale's glass, since he wasn't about to let the angel wreck his new carpet with his clumsy fingers.

"Oh! Thank you dear," said Aziraphale, taking an absolute swig of the white. "I'm terribly sorry, my fingers just don't seem to be working tonight…"

"Anyway, I was thinking it might be worth keeping an eye out for that one, is all," Crowley continued. "Your side's got Petipa _and_ Diaghilev,[1] s'only fair my side gets some this century."

"Gets what, sorry?" Aziraphale said, startling out of some reverie. "Wine? The red's around here somewhere…"

"Nevermind," Crowley sighed.

 

[1] Marius Petipa (1818-1910) and Sergei Diaghilev (1872-1929), nineteenth century ballet choreographers. Petipa was choreographer for the Imperial Ballet and is responsible for the original choreography for many classical ballets, while Diaghilev was founder-choreographer of the Ballets Russes, whose avant-garde productions inspired dancers, musicians, and artists alike.

—

 

Theatre tickets, in Crowley's opinion, were things that happened to other people. 

This is not to say that when they landed in his lap, he turned them down. To be specific, when he received them as part of an exchange of information with someone on the Greater London Council's motorway and transport committee, he gladly accepted them because encouraging public servants to engage in bribery was part of his job description. (He had _plans_ for those motorways, after all.) The tickets were for a show called _Sweet Charity_ , which had a dreadful name but promised to be sufficiently full of sex and immorality that Crowley decided he'd bring Aziraphale with him.

Sitting in their seats (front row, mezzanine; not quite the privacy of a box but an unparalleled view of the stage), Crowley suspected this might have been a mistake. It wasn't that Aziraphale was an embarrassment—the theatre still demanded evening wear, and even Aziraphale had long given up his tail-coat—but rather than he was _annoying_.

"Do you know, I don't think I've heard any music by this Cy Coleman? I do hope he's good. So much of what I hear on the radio today is just— _be-bop_ ," Aziraphale sniffed. "It's not that I don't trust your taste, dear, it's just that I do think people are awfully unappreciative of what a nice orchestral arrangement can do…"

Crowley tuned him out. Aziraphale was diligently reading the show's programme, keeping up a steady stream of chatter all the while. All Crowley had to do was put in an occasion murmur of agreement or sympathy or an occasional snort, and he could go back to thinking about other things. At the moment, it was a battle between what he had to do next to ensure that the Ringways motorway plan went through and the desire to tune the saxophone which was currently warming up in the orchestra pit.

Eventually Aziraphale put the program away and the lights dimmed, and Crowley got three seconds of blessed silence before the overture blared into existence. The first act was alright, with some satisfactory songs and good dancing, although Crowley was sorely disappointed that Charity wasn't a prostitute after all. When the lights went up, Crowley's disappointment doubled; Aziraphale was smiling at him.

"It seems like such a good-hearted show," he told Crowley. "Even if for some reason they won't admit Charity is a woman of the night. Now, where's my program…"

Aziraphale rummaged around under the seat while Crowley stood up and stretched.

"Come on, angel," he said. "If you don't hurry up there's going to be a hideous long queue at the bar, and then how will I get through the second act?"

"Yes, yes, I know, just let me—" Aziraphale emerged triumphant, dirty blonde curls askew, with the program in hand. "There we go."

They shuffled out to the theatre lobby and the oasis of the mezzanine bar. Crowley ordered them both martinis after stepping to the front of the line, Aziraphale sighing all the while but pointedly not complaining as they walked away, finding a space in the crowd where they could actually hear each other.

Aziraphale had his martini glass in one hand and the program in the other, flipping it open as soon as they had a little space. Honestly, what was the _point_ of bringing the angel if all he was going to do was read the entire evening? They used to be able to manage a little civilized conversation; in fact, they'd managed it just fine last month, and that in the back of Aziraphale's bookshop.

"Crowley dear," said Aziraphale, breaking Crowley out of his well-deserved sulk. "Did you know this? The choreographer's won awards in America for this show. America really has the strangest ideas, some of that dancing was very, um, inventive…"

"They like inventive in New York," Crowley replied, irritably. "Who was the choreographer?"

"A Mr. Bob Fosse," Aziraphale told him. "How very American, using a nick-name instead of one's Christian name. Anyway, it says he's done _Little Me, Redhead, The Pajama Game_ …oh, hum, and he was in _Kiss Me Kate_ , the film version. Didn't you see that, dear?"

"Er—yeah," said Crowley, scanning through his memories. "In '53." He thought it over a bit more.

"Blast it," he said. "I'd bet good money he was that dancer stood out. It's the same kind of style with the—" He waved his elbows around a bit. "—thing, and the thing. Buggery. Another one of yours, then?"

Aziraphale patted him on the arm sympathetically. "Not mine, specifically. But I'm sure Heaven's got their eyes on him. You know Uriel."

"At least we've got rock music," Crowley muttered, and finished his martini in one go.

 

—

 

Crowley barged through the door to the bookshop, hardly pausing before flinging himself up onto the shop counter.

"Welcome back," Aziraphale said without looking up from his work. He was carefully putting rice-paper over some page corners. "How was America?"

"Delightful, as always." Crowley kicked his feet against the counter. "I've done some real good work this time. Gonna leave low-grade malevolence in the hearts and minds of American film fans for _decades_."

"As long as it's just the Americans," warned Aziraphale as he finished the repair and carefully closed the book he was working on, a seventeenth century volume purporting to share ancient mysteries.

"It's definitely some of my better work," Crowley continued. "Not quite as good as game shows but definitely better than that thing with the camels."

"Right." Aziraphale stood up and pushed through the tartan curtain leading to the shop's back room. "Are you staying, then?"

Crowley hopped off the counter and waved a hand at the door, which promptly locked. "Yes, yes, just give me a minute, I brought you something back from America."

He snapped his fingers, concentrating a bit, and to his satisfaction heard Aziraphale yelp.

"Could you _please_ not do that sort of thing in my shop?" the angel griped. "I don't want any extra attention."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Just enjoy your present."

Aziraphale opened the box and pulled out a bottle, shaped like a cross between a flask and a lamp. "Rosé? Portuguese, at that? Really, Crowley?"

"Mateus Rosé is very popular in America right now," he replied, grinning.

Aziraphale sniffed. "If you say so."

They got settled eventually, on Aziraphale's mismatched armchairs. He still had one of the old Victorian ones, although he'd recently replaced one of them with a new and equally hideous floral one.

"So as I was saying," Crowley said pointedly, silencing Aziraphale's dithering about the wine. "America. I did some great work, if I say so myself."

"I'm sure you did," said Aziraphale. "How was the weather in California?"

Crowley grumbled. "Don't you want to hear about my excellent wile, angel?"

Aziraphale smiled, slowly and small. "Yes, Crowley, tell me about your wile."

"So. You know the Oscars—or maybe not? They're a Hollywood award ceremony show thing, they're very important to a lot of people. Lots of people's unhappiness rests on the Oscars. And they're voted on, which is such an American idea, really, but if there's voting there really ought to be voting fraud, right? So I went to California and I spent some time with the voting, and I've changed who's going to win some awards, and everyone's going to be _really_ irritated with it," Crowley finished triumphantly.

"Just irritated?" Aziraphale asked, a little condescendingly.

"Yep. Outrage wouldn't do anyone any good at all," Crowley told him. "They'd figure out what was up then."

"I see," replied Aziraphale, although he very obviously did not. Unlike Crowley, he didn't take any particular pride in his work, preferring to do what he was required to and spending the rest of his time with his books. "Who is going to win, then? Or rather, which film?"

Crowley cackled. "That's the best bit. _The Godfather_ was supposed to win—excellent film really, although I'm sure you haven't seen it, very serious, it's about the mafia—but I've arranged things so that the winner is going to be a _musical_. That'll get them all in a twist."

"What's wrong with a little light musical comedy?" said Aziraphale. "I don't mind a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan myself."

"It's—not really that," Crowley started. "Theatre's moved on a bit since you last regularly attended. Got a bit Modern."

"I didn't mind that show you took me to a few years ago," Aziraphale protested. "Uplifting, if the dancing was a bit…strange."

"Getting closer. It's the same choreographer, for one. Directed the film version, choreographed for the stage version. Gonna win the Oscar for that, Fosse will, or at least he will now," said Crowley. He turned his head to Aziraphale, grinning slyly. "Have you seen _Cabaret_?"

"I'm afraid I don't frequent those kinds of institutions," Aziraphale sniffed haughtily.

Crowley laughed. "No, it's a film, it's called _Cabaret_."

Aziraphale blushed and buried his face in his wine glass. "I haven't seen it, you knew that."

"Fair enough, you never see anything unless I take you to it," Crowley conceded. "Anyway, it's set in 1930s Berlin just before it all went to shit—you weren't there but I spent an unfortunate few weeks there for the Olympics—and it's very, um. You know, nevermind. The point is that it's not at all what people who like _The Godfather_ are going to like, not at all, and that'll made people mad, and that's brilliant."

"Is it very newfangled, then? Lots of sex and people doing drugs?" Aziraphale asked, contemplating the rosé.

Crowley scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yes, exactly. People having sex with people they shouldn't, trying to top themselves, the whole shebang."

"Isn't that what people like, these days?"

"In the theatre, maybe. Not so much Oscar-winning films," Crowley tried to explain. "That's why they never made a film of that bloody hippie musical where everyone took their clothes off at the end, even though all the theatre people loved it."

"Which one was that?" Aziraphale put his glass down on the table. "I really can't be bothered to keep up with everything, these days. Such an awful lot going on, everything changing so fast. All of that with the new Pope and the Vatican Council was rather a bit much—so much paperwork had to be changed, Gabriel showing up at my doorstep all hours of the night, muttering about policy…"

Crowley sighed. Aziraphale advanced through time in fits and starts, and judging by the plaid-on-plaid sport-coat-and-vest combo he was wearing, it looked like he'd stopped somewhere around 1958. It really wasn't so bad as of yet, but in a few decades it would be awful and Crowley would have to drag him kicking and screaming into the present. That really was the one disadvantage of Modern Times, as Crowley understood it. Back in the early centuries fashions changed at a pace Aziraphale could actually follow, so if he was an embarrassment to be seen with it was because he never looked where he was going and not because he was dressed poorly, but since at least the Tudor kings fashion had outpaced Aziraphale thoroughly. At least it wasn't quite as bad as the nineteenth century, this time around; Crowley'd woken up to Aziraphale wearing the same frock-coat he'd been wearing the last time Crowley saw him ninety years earlier, although thankfully he'd ditched the breeches.

Aziraphale was still rambling on about something or other. "Crowley?"

"Pardon, what?" said Crowley, shaking his head a bit to clear the past from his mind.

"What was it you were saying before I interrupted? I do go on sometimes, and I think I lost you that time," Aziraphale admitted, the tips of his ears turning a bit red.

"Oh, um," Crowley stuttered. " _Cabaret_. And the director. I hear he's a real piece of work, you know. Separated from his third wife. Kept having affairs, treating other women badly, that kind of thing. I'm assuming Gabriel's policy changes don't include adultery?"

"Er," said Aziraphale. "No. Not the case at all."

"See, then, he'll be one of ours at last," Crowley told him, taking a triumphant drink of the too-sweet wine. "Especially with all the sex and the naked women and suchlike."

"I imagine he may well, in the end," Aziraphale replied. "Although there is certainly plenty of time for him to find his way back to the fold."

Crowley snorted. "Ever the optimist, you are."

"It is policy, you know," said Aziraphale.

Crowley threw a pen at him.

 

—

 

Only a few years into the Beginning of the End of the World, and Crowley wasn't sure his nerves were going to last.

Oh, he kept a brave face in front of Aziraphale, mostly, because after all their little scheme depended on Aziraphale continuing to act in concert with Crowley and it just wouldn't do for him to get an idea of how utterly _wrecked_ Crowley felt about it all. He'd tried long, fast drives through the city, but eventually that lost its relaxation properties when discorporation became an actual threat rather than a sort of mild thrill. So he took to walking, long aimless walks at night that were less walks and more large-scale pacing, endless circles through central London.

It worked, sort of. The walking reminded him of the old days, before the Bentley, before elegant dark carriages and sedan-chairs. Just him on his own two feet, and lucky to have those. It was a little harder to panic when the air wasn't recirculated and memory clouded his mind. We've had a good run, he'd think, London and I. Then he'd get mobbed by a crowd leaving a pub, and then he was panicking about getting out of that rather than anything eschatological.

So that's about where he was, one autumn evening, when he wandered past a cinema. It was one of the old ones, from the days when the cinema was something new and impressive and worth putting brass decoration and fancy carpet in. Crowley missed those days, more than he thought he would at the time. California had been fun, immensely so, and it seemed centuries ago that he'd been messing around with awards ceremonies and suggesting things to film-makers at swanky parties, even if it wasn't.

He picked _All That Jazz_ at random, some Aziraphale voice in his head saying that one could always do with a little light musical comedy, even if the director was Bob bloody Fosse. Crowley bought a box of popcorn more out of habit than anything, and went to his seat hoping for a distraction.

It wasn't, not really. It seemed like it would be at first, before Crowley clued in to what he was watching. Then it wasn't, not at all. There was something fascinating in watching an autobiography on film, sure, but putting your own death in? Fictionalized, played out on screen, My Death: Now in Theatres? Bloody unnerving, as far as Crowley was concerned, which is exactly what he told Aziraphale four days later when they met up for a working dinner.

"I don't see why you expected anything else," said Aziraphale, finishing up the last of his potatoes. "Isn't Fosse one of yours?"

"I don't know," Crowley replied, stabbing viciously at his fish. "I don't really think it even matters, at this point."

Aziraphale made a non-committal noise. He was surreptitiously eying Crowley's plate, the half-eaten vegetables and rice. "May I?"

"Might as well," sighed Crowley, turning his plate around and pushing it across the table. He toyed with the last of the fish; it had been alright, even with the raspberry vinaigrette, but he simply didn't have much of an appetite.

"Thank you, dear." Aziraphale's fork speared a carrot. "I do hope the theatre takes a turn for the better this decade."

"I didn't realize you were so invested," Crowley responded dully. His glass refilled itself. Aziraphale frowned, so Crowley refilled his glass too. 

"It's not that," said Aziraphale. "Only I've had reports that Mrs. Dowling is rather fond of the West End."

"Ah. Worried about the kid's media consumption?"

"Something like that. If it all keeps on as it's been the last few years, then I feel as if it's unfairly favouring your side, that's all," explained Aziraphale, looking a bit sheepish.

"Get them a season ticket to the ballet, then," Crowley replied. "Ballet's definitely one of yours."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in agreement. The rice was rapidly disappearing.

"Anyway," Crowley said. "Did I tell you I was thinking about re-doing my flat again? The orange is getting a bit tired."

"Already?"

"You've got to keep up with the _trends_ , angel," said Crowley. "I'm thinking white. White couches, white walls, white carpet…"

 

—

 

Ten years on from the End of the World, and somehow everything was still standing. 

Crowley couldn't quite believe it. Sure, management worked slowly, but nothing had _happened_ , after. He'd woken up the next morning and the Bentley was there, and he'd called Aziraphale and the bookshop was there, and Aziraphale was there, and so were the ducks…As if nothing happened at all.

He sighed and rolled over, which had the unfortunate effect of reminding him he'd fallen asleep on the couch, and landed on the floor with a thump. Right. Drinking to forget. Clearly he'd forgotten, just…not what he meant to.

He laid there, contemplating his options for the day. He hadn't done much of anything for work in years, although he'd sent off a report claiming responsibility for that whole Y2K fiasco, even if he suspected no one would really understand it. There was tormenting his plants, but it was August and the heat seemed to be doing Crowley's work for him. What he wanted to do, he admitted to himself, was call Aziraphale. It was what he wanted to do most days, honestly. Except they hadn't the excuse they'd had before, now, so Crowley couldn't just call him up and remind him their twice-monthly status meeting was soon, and how were the books? To which Aziraphale had always responded that they weren't pets, and Crowley would say…

_Agh_ , thought Crowley with some determination. Bugger it all. It had all gotten weird a few months after Tadfield, when Aziraphale had pointed out that they'd hardly a reason to meet so often, now, and perhaps it might be better if they didn't, since Above certainly had their eyes on Aziraphale. Crowley had ignored him and called him up two weeks later, only to have Aziraphale turn down the offer of the Ritz and the ducks, so Crowley hadn't called him until after the New Year out of spite. Then Aziraphale had gone off somewhere, claiming he needed some personal time (or so his ansaphone had said, and since when had Aziraphale owned one of those?), and he hadn't come back until the year after _that_ , and in all that time Crowley hadn't even managed a nap longer than a week.

All in all, the early nineties had been a very depressing time indeed, and Crowley wasn’t quite sure they’d recovered. He’d managed to get Aziraphale to agree to meeting every two months back in ’92, and last year Aziraphale had called Crowley a full two weeks before their scheduled meeting to accuse him of trying to break all the world's computers, which (if somewhat offensive) was secretly a bit of a relief. Even if it was so far from the truth that Crowley just _had_ to storm over to the shop and drag Aziraphale out for udon noodles and a full, detailed explanation of how it had nothing to do with Crowley. It got easier after that, and they’d almost fallen back into old patterns, meeting once a month for dinners at the Ritz or standing in the Victoria  & Albert galleries bickering or feeding the ducks. But Crowley always felt a little distance now, and it hurt a bit, and—oh, so _that’s_ why he’d been drinking. Bloody emotions.

There was a copy of the _Sunday Times_ underneath the coffee table, so Crowley pulled it out to have a look. He paused at the theatre section; it had been _years_ since he'd seen anything, and he wondered if Aziraphale had kept up, without Mrs. Dowling's regular attendance to monitor. Maybe that's what he'd do, call Aziraphale and say he had tickets, and then they could get food after, and Aziraphale wouldn't even remember he'd only seen Crowley the week before. Or well, he would, but he wouldn't _mind_.

Crowley brought himself up to the couch, throwing the newspaper on top of the coffee table, and summoning his mobile. He took a deep breath, and dialled the shop’s number. _Showtime_.

Aziraphale answered three rings in. "Hello?"

"Hello, angel," said Crowley, studiously casual. "Are you busy tonight?"

A pause and some shuffling. "I was intending to make that repair on that antiphonal, the one with the odd illuminations? Some of the binding's coming loose…"

"Does that really qualify as busy? I'm fairly certain book repair can wait a night," Crowley pleaded, trying for suave and mostly reaching a bit desperate.

"Alright. Go on then, you old serpent," said Aziraphale, after a pause. "Wile away."

"Right. Er, so I've got tickets for um—" Crowley flipped open the theatre section quickly, searching for a suitable show [2]— " _Fosse_ , yes, remember him? And I was thinking maybe you'd like to come with?"

Silence on the line, and Crowley's stomach sinking into his feet. "It could be a sort of ironic celebration, you know, it's been ten years since—Tadfield—and a bit like End Times again, you know, the alright bits with us and all those shows with chandeliers Mrs. Dowling liked—"

"Crowley," said Aziraphale.

"—and you know I never did figure out where he ended up, but I did enjoy the dancing, and at least there'll be wine and themed cocktails and have I told you how much I love themed cocktails? Because I do, they're really—"

" _Crowley_."

"—Sorry," Crowley cut himself off. His hands were shaking. Odd.

"Are you quite finished?" Aziraphale asked. "Only I _was_ going to say yes, except then I dropped my pencil, and now you're a bit—"

He could tell the angel was waving his hands around in that way he did, could practically see it in his mind's eye.

"Oh," said Crowley. "That's—right. Pick you up at 7, then?"

"That's hardly enough time, what with finding a parking space," Aziraphale objected.

"Who does that?" Crowley muttered. "But fine, fine, will 6:30 do?"

There was a faint thumping in the background. "I'm sorry. I seem to have a, a customer," Aziraphale said, in the tones of someone gearing up for a fight. "But yes, 6:30 will do nicely."

"Good," replied Crowley. "Good. Um. Ciao?"

Aziraphale hung up, leaving Crowley sitting on his couch, his right hand crumpling the theatre section of the _Times_. A pleasant warm kind of anxiety settled in the area of his stomach, and Crowley looked around his pristine white flat as if it were something brand new.

Huh, thought Crowley, almost jumping to his feet, tossing his mobile in the air and catching it neatly.

"To new things," he said aloud, and smiled.

 

[2] _Honk!,_ a musical version of _The Ugly Duckling_ and the Olivier winner for Best New Musical in 2000 (a success despite competition from _Mamma Mia!_ and Disney's _The Lion King_ ), was entirely unsuitable. After _Starlight Express_ , Crowley had entirely sworn off anything promoted as "family-friendly" and at the very least, Crowley rather thought Aziraphale might be a bit sick of Hans Christian Anderson.

**Author's Note:**

> This got away from me, a bit. I don’t know how familiar anyone in this fandom is with Fosse’s work, but I really do suggest watching Cabaret and All That Jazz. I left out the weirdest part of All That Jazz, because I suspect Crowley would just kind of block it out – it’s the number known as “Take Off With Us (Air-otica)” which is definitely NSFW (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vSHnK4dvi3w).
> 
> Happy Holidays, meganbobness!


End file.
